


I Rise

by Aegrisomnia89



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alien Biology, BDSM, Do I need separate tags for Haxus' ambition and ego?, Dom/sub Undertones, Eventual Enthusiastic Consent, Eventual Sex, F/M, Galra OCs - Freeform, Implied/Referenced Torture, Interrogation, Original Female Character - Freeform, Porn With Plot, Referenced Genocide, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles, dubcon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-22 00:46:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9574406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aegrisomnia89/pseuds/Aegrisomnia89
Summary: "Whether we fall by ambition, blood, or lust, like diamonds we are cut with our own dust."--John WebsterCarving a path toward the position of Commander never promised a life of ease, but Haxus is used to sleepless nights and close-calls. He'll get there, one way or the other, and if that road includes throwing down with slaves and gladiators, then so be it. He's never been one to shy away from dirtying his hands, after all.





	1. Inception

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written fic to be published online in like two years so I wanted to apologize ahead of time. Normally I don't post unless my story is complete, buuuuut I really need the motivation so I'm hoping just sorta knowing this is out there for people to read and review will give me the incentive to beat out the subsequent chapters.
> 
> Anyway, I wrote this because I'm in need of some good wholesome Galra-centric content, and couldn't find anything that ran along my particular tastes. I also gave birth to an OC whom I love and adore and figured, eh, aliens fucking, it's someone's kink. Also, for some reason, I just adore the shit out of Haxus and really wanted to see if I could do something new that isn't Transformers.
> 
> This is my brain child. I've pretty much written the thing in my head; it has a beginning, middle, and an end, so it's just sorta getting it down on paper. I won't give a schedule for updates because I can't guarantee that those will happen on a regular basis. I will, however, give a time frame. Let's say about every two weeks? 
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading it more than I enjoyed writing it (because I suffer when I write).

 

 

 “It’s certainly not the _largest_ planet we’ve conquered.”

 “Does it need to be? You can see the mountain range from orbit!”

 “It doesn’t matter what it looks like—it’s under Galra rule now!”

 Haxus stood at the back of his group of peers and watched over their heads as the ship drifted through Kreeal’s orbit, ignoring their inane chatter and focusing only on the snow-capped peaks of mountains poking through the clouds. He wasn’t thinking of the planet itself, of its size or geography. He didn’t care for the objective beauty of the mountains—those admittedly impressive ranges covered the entire surface of the planet, save for a few pockets of collected water and greenery.

 The summit of the largest mountain nearly broke orbit, forcing the planet’s axis at an obscene tilt and affecting its own slight gravitational pull; the three small moons orbiting Kreeal performed a stilted dance around the planet, each one choosing to align with another at the exact point where the mountain’s pinnacle pierced the upper atmosphere.

 Some Galra, having never before seen a planet so _alien_ , might have remarked on its objective beauty with the same sort of breathless reverence usually reserved for exultation of their glorious Emperor. They would have been in error to do so, for _nothing_ compared to the precise elegance of the machine of the Empire itself, which had cut through greater and far more exotic planets than _this_.

 Haxus pitied them, because they were small-minded individuals, only able to see what was right in front of them, without any inclination toward the larger picture—what such a planet might offer them _beyond_ a pretty sight.

 He, for one, looked down at Kreeal and saw only a _tool_.

 He saw rich ore deposits embedded deep within the same mountains where it was reported the native lifeforms carved their homes, materials which would be mined from the rock and given new purpose. He saw slaves ready to be made into free labor, or given over to their gladiator sport for the amusement of Emperor Zarkon. Those few who were unlucky enough to be singled out from their compatriots would be transferred into the care of the Druids, who performed experiments in their secretive way and reported their findings to Haggar.

 Ultimately, he foresaw another otherwise nondescript planet gaining a place in the vast interstellar network that made up the illustrious Galra Empire, and, not for the first time, he found himself filled with an immense pride that he was to be a _part_ of all this.

 “What do you think the aliens of this planet are like?” asked Thorza, a sub-lieutenant in his core sect, and the only one of his peers he could tolerate for more than few minutes. Thorza’s pale facial markings always gave him the appearance of someone surprised by the unwanted appearance of a loathsome relative; the curved tips of his ears swept back towards the dark crown of his head and he did his best to sneer at Haxus down the length of his nose, even though he stood half a head shorter. Haxus had somehow managed to treat him without _complete_ disdain for the past few years, and the two had struck forth a shaky camaraderie that only barely passed for the most basic of friendships.

 “Cave-dwellers,” Haxus murmured out of the corner of his thin-lipped mouth, leaning over to give their conversation some semblance of privacy. “They possess an excellent sense of natural camouflage, and are uncannily strong; they’ve chiseled their way through the mountains.”

 Thorza shook his head, making a soft noise of disbelief. “They sound like perfect barbarians,” he whispered back, barely moving his lips. “If they have any sense, they’ll be grateful to the Empire for stepping in. Imagine, living in _caves._ ” He shuddered in disgust and crossed his arms over his broad chest.

 Haxus lifted a single shoulder in a slight show of a shrug, and turned his gaze back toward the aperture. His information came secondhand, but his sources were above reproach; they had to be, otherwise he’d never have revealed what he knew to Thorza. Not that he expected his comrade to do anything with those small, fragmented details, except, perhaps, pass them on. Thorza was nothing if not predictable, and that’s what Haxus counted on him to be in this situation. If everyone was distracted with rumor and gossip, it gave him room to actually _work_.

 Kreeal was more than a tool--strategically, its location gave the Empire a foothold in an as-of-yet unexplored sector of the galaxy. A new frontier, so-to-speak, which meant the formation of exploratory forays, which inevitably led to _promotions_ , because Zarkon was no fool and he wouldn’t dare risk his best commanders on a kit’s mission when there were plenty of eager lieutenants vying for the chance to take charge of their own warship.

  _Patience begets opportunity_ , he quoted to himself as he slowly backed away from the gaggle of Galra surrounding the cramped viewport.

 “Alright, cadets—enough sight-seeing! Get back to your stations!”

 Precious few lingered after the order, reluctant to tear themselves from portal, but Haxus was not one of them. He turned curtly on his heel and slipped out ahead of his cohorts, silent as a shadow.

 His penchant for introspection, his mentor used to say, would one day get him into trouble. ‘You think too much,’ the old warrior had said. Kor had always preferred a good show of force over using his head, and that, the younger cadets used to whisper, is why he ended up losing half of _his_.

 Thinking, however, was what Haxus did _best_. He had distinguished himself from the rest of his class by tricking a sparring drone into deactivating itself, instead of fighting it hand-to-hand. He was adept, of course, but it had seemed the most efficient choice at the time. His instructors had been impressed—not all of them, but those who mattered had taken him aside and offered him a different sort of program, one in which he was all but guaranteed to succeed.

 Intelligence Operations proved to be a challenge, but no more than he had expected. He was on his way to the top—to _Commander._ His own ship, settled in his own sector of the galaxy.

 Was it so much to ask?

  _No, it’s not_ , he thought to himself. _I’m not going to fade away into obscurity. Not by a_ _ **long**_ _shot._

 His shift didn’t start for another six quintets. Instead of retreating to the ship’s massive information hub to study (pouring over coordinates, investigating any instances of energy fluxes which might designate the presence of one of the Voltron lions—what every ambitious lieutenant dedicated themselves to, even in their spare time), Haxus chose to return to his personal quarters.

 The door slid open with a soft hiss of hydraulics. Standard quarters did not offer a great deal of room; Haxus’ held a simple bed with modest padding, a desk and terminal (strictly monitored by the central control hub), washracks, and a small recessed closet where he stored his few personal possessions. The moment the door slid shut behind him, he breathed a small sigh of relief and immediately took a seat at his desk.

 Within seconds he had logged into the main hub, but did not stop there. His talon-tipped fingers flew over the interface, encrypting his current location and concealing his tracks behind several different proxies. A pre-programmed chip plugged into one of the numerous ports and fed a signal to another terminal, this one small and portable.

 He had done this hundreds of times before. His loyalty to the Empire never wavered, but the thought that he was under constant surveillance, more than likely by those druids belonging to Haggar, unnerved him to the point where the deception became a necessity; his ambitions had...a price. The last thing he needed was a witch breathing down his neck when he was trying to climb his way to high command.

 Satisfied that his portable terminal was properly shielded from prying eyes, Haxus opened a remote program and returned to his last received message.

  **://Prisoner removed to lower cell blocks.**

 A small light flickered at the bottom of the messenger; Haxus grinned. The contact was online, and waiting, apparently. Satisfaction growing, he began to type back.

  **:// >Current ETA?**

 The little light flickered once, and then disappeared, the telltale sign that his contact was responding. He only had to wait a few ticks before a new message appeared in the window.

  **://Unavailable…**

 Haxus frowned.

  **:// >What do you mean?**

  **://There’s been a change of plans.**

 Setbacks were unavoidable in his line of work; the best one could do is remain collected and in control at all times. Mistakes, if they _had_ to be made, could at the very least be properly mitigated to reduce the total damage output. This, however, was a more _private_ affair. He didn’t have the luxury of a team of analysts at his back, running numbers and probabilities.

  **:// >Where is the prisoner?**

  **://Waiting to be sent to the next challenger.**

  **:// >The gladiator games?**

  **://Yes.**

 Haxus cursed under his breath. His sleek fur began to stand on end at the thought of his _months_ of hard work meeting a brutal and bloodied end in the middle of screaming, teeming crowds of commoners. He had lost too many sleepless nights to this project, ensuring the timing was just right, that all his contacts were properly motivated and cajoled into manipulating extenuating circumstances in his favor.

  **:// >We had a deal, **he typed back, fury rising in his chest, beneath the dual heartbeat that rose to a drum-like rhythm within his ears.

  **://Yes, I know. I’m working on it.**

  **:// >If the prisoner dies before I get the chance to interrogate them, the deal’s off.**

  **://Relax. I’m locating her holding cell.**

  **:// >A female? You’re sure?**

  **://Near as I can tell. I’m not a doctor or a scientist, and this species bears too many—damn.**

  **:// >What?**

  **://Too late. She’s being summoned.**

  **:// >What?**

  **://If you hurry you can watch the match.**

 But Haxus had already closed down the client and quickly erased the tracking data created by the false proxies. Once the portable terminal was synced with his private communicator, he tucked it away in a hidden compartment beneath his bed and left his room, his pace altered from brisk walk to a slow run.

 Gladiator battles did not usually end in the favor of slaves.

 


	2. Electi

 

The screams of the crowd reached him before he set foot in the stadium; their cheers and taunts reverberated throughout the walls and floor, sinking through his boots and finding purchase in his bones, where the vibrations climbed his body to the tips of his ears, standing his sleek fur on end. Haxus grit his teeth and steeled himself before the entrance to ground level seating, where the vast majority of Galran citizens would _kill_ to be placed.

Of _course_ he had the appropriate clearance, which he threw in the face of the guard who barely had time to open his mouth before Haxus blew by with a sharp glare. The door slid open and the stench of sweat and musk struck him like a physical blow—beneath that, the subtle fumes of old blood and decay lingered from previous matches, having seeped into the layer of dirt covering the arena floor. Haxus inhaled deeply, submitting his senses to the clobbering culmination of powerful scents until he no longer felt as though he were being overwhelmed. The crowd roared again, and the horn signaling the end of the match blasted from several speakers.

Seating arranged itself according to ticket price—more expensive sections were parceled closer to the action, whereas cheaper options filled the middle and back. The _priciest_ , most coveted sections surrounded the Emperor’s private box and usually sold out immediately upon release. Passes granted access to floor level seating, but the reservations only lasted long enough for one season’s worth of matches and had to be relinquished to another paying attendee—no one member of the public could purchase a pass twice in a row. Haxus made his way to his designated seat, hoping he wasn’t too late.

Snatches of conversation made way to his ears as he forced his way through barriers of knees, boots, bags, and recording equipment, none of it at all interesting or valuable. People attended the games to distract themselves from life’s larger problems, and thus their conversations revolved around the latest kill, the staggering odds at the betting windows, the weapons used, and, of course, rumors of fresh shipments of slaves. Everything he had heard before, at least twice, and, like before, the noisy rabble left him wanting for something more sustainable. Information was anything but if it held no power over someone else.

Wishing he could simply _choose_ deafness, Haxus dropped in his seat, scowling at the Galra on either side of him, one who looked as though he hadn’t left the arena for days and the other on his right appearing as though she belonged anywhere _but_ , in her voluminous robed gown and jeweled circlet, the former of which spilled decadently over the arms of her seat and into his. Both ignored his presence, their attention captured by the body of the last contender being dragged from view by a couple sentries.

In the middle of the arena stood the current Victor of Games, a creature of average height, clutching a bloodied mace and performing a complicated pattern with his free hand in what might have been prayer. The creature was a species known as a Potorian, Haxus remembered, having extensively studied the thoroughfares of Planet P90-12x (or Potor, he was sure someone had dubbed it). They were an amphibious people, newly adopted into the Galra Empire within the past few seasons, and if he wasn’t mistaken (highly unlikely as it was), this had been one of their rebel chieftains who had refused to kneel before the might of the Empire.

Now, he killed for their collective amusement.

The battlehorn sounded again, and a chamber opposite the Emperor’s throne slid open. Haxus could barely make out the shadowy forms of slaves huddling together, and thus stood up, craning his neck in an attempt to locate his Kreealt.

“Sit _down!_ ” someone yelled from behind, but at that point, the vast majority of the first three rows had already clambered to their feet, each one looking for the sentries in order to be the first one to catch a glimpse of the next doomed soul. Haxus felt his hearts constrict in his throat as he waited with baited breath, and at his wrist his telecommunications device chirped with the delivery of a new message.

Rare was the occurrence of a slave taking initiative and entering the arena of his own accord, but the crowd never seemed to care if the next one had to be dragged, kicking and screaming, into view. They either fought or died, or both, and that was all that mattered. The Emperor kept the arena well stocked with a near endless supply of bodies to be used as entertainment, and in the end, _that_ was all that ever mattered. Two sentries marched forward, disappearing into the shadow of the recessed cell.

A few ticks passed, and then, without warning, one android flew across the arena, striking the wall at the far side and landing in a fractured heap at the base. The crowd tittered in surprise as the drone sparked and shorted out, and a few of the more adventurous idiots hung over the edge of the wall trying to see what, exactly, had happened. Hissing to himself, Haxus snatched a pair of antique binoculars from the opulently dressed Galra next to him.

“Hey!” she snarled, fur bristling.

“Shut _up_ ,” Haxus snapped, glaring back until she submitted beneath the withering force of his gaze, dropping back down into her seat with a huff. One of the sentry’s arms, he saw as he pressed the binoculars to his eyes, had been ripped from its socket. The amount of force that had to take—the androids were not built like mere toys, but with purpose and durability in mind—was reminiscent of a fully trained Galra warrior, and even then, those who were able to rip androids apart as though they were nothing, and without the aid of weapons or augmentations was...few and far between.

Torn between wanting the perpetrator to be the Kreealt and wanting it to be some other alien he didn’t have to deal with, Haxus leaned against the guard railing, uncaring that he blocked the pathway. No one else took notice, though, as the second sentry bounced into view, its body absolutely _mangled_ beyond repair.

The crowd went still. He hazarded a glance over to the Emperor’s box, but, unsurprisingly, Zarkon had not deigned to grace this Game with his presence. Back in the center of the arena, the previous victor cried out in his native language and charged the cell, his borrowed weapon held stiff by his side.

Something else sailed through the air—one of the spectators pointed and shouted, but Haxus was only able to catch the tail-end arc of the first sentry’s missing arm, still spitting sparks from its ruptured components, striking the Potorian in the face. His webbed feet flew out from under him as the severed limb caught him by surprise, comically halting his mad advance full-stop. Amused, the crowd clapped and jeered, finally relieved to see some action; those who sat at an angle allowing them to _see_ the action roared, some standing on their seats, grabbing each other, _fighting_ , throwing refuse into the arena and otherwise acting like the sort of barbaric, backwater species usually pitted against one another in the arena. It was embarrassing, but then again, the absence of their Emperor always did bring out the worst in others.

His ears twitched as his entire section began to add to the rabble, taunting and baiting the unseen combatant, hurling curses and threats at the officiants until they veritably ran out of breath.

“C’mon, show some _face!_ ” the Galra to his left yelled, shaking his fist.

“Drag ‘em out!”

“Give us _blood!_ ”

At this point Haxus was almost inclined to agree, but, either in response to the rousing cries of the horde of onlookers, or due in part to the insistence (read: threat) of the remaining sentries, the opponent finally emerged in what could be considered the most anticlimactic reveal of the season.

She (he could only assume) strode across the arena at an unhurried pace, one set of arms swaying loosely at her sides, the other set crossed sullenly over her stomach. Hair hung from her head down to the small of her back, gathered in thick dreads, colored the same slate gray as her skin. Haxus inhaled sharply at the sight of her and quickly checked his message via a transparent visor he hooked beneath his ears.

**:// She’s up next,** his contact had sent. **://Don’t think she’s going to lose this round. Try not to worry.**

Too late for _that_.

The Kreealt spared no thought toward her audience—not once did she look up from her adversary, who writhed on the ground, clutching at his head where blue-green blood seeped from a large gash. Hers was the slow and purposeful stride of one who intended to do grievous bodily harm; he had seen that same look before, the same stiff posture in those who were his superiors, who had claimed their positions through bloodshed and death. Haxus knew the look of someone who had taken life and did not fear doing so again.

To the Galra, this was nothing more than _sport,_ but to her, it seemed, this was little more than _business_.

Spectators held a certain degree of expectancy for how gladiators were supposed to behave, how they were meant to _act_ , and most prisoners had the common sense and decency to play along, if only because the favor of the host could buy a few more days’ worth of their miserable lives during which they could...pray, or plead for mercy—whatever it was prisoners did when they had the time and ingenuity.

This one did not seem to care, however. She came to stand over the Potorian, straddling his form as he rolled about, and though he could not see her face from the way she had turned her back, Haxus could imagine her expression and the thought of what she might look like in that moment sent a secret thrill racing along his skin. He wondered if she might look at _him_ with defiance, with hatred and anger as he stripped away her dignity. What curses would she spit, while he whittled away at her will? How long until she _broke?_

He was aware of his fur prickling beneath the sleek bodysuit he wore, and further aware of his intended victim’s sudden movement, crouching to retrieve the sentry’s metal arm. He pressed the binoculars against his brow again, _hard_ , as though he could teleport through the lens and emerge at her side for the killing blow.

She held her chosen weapon over her shoulder for a tick, contemplating the once-victor; had she hesitated for any longer, Haxus would have suspected her of pitying her fellow slave. If it _were_ pity, she chose instead to spare him his dignity, and brought the heavy machinery down on his finned head.

**THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!**

The entire grandstand was on its feet with the first blow and screaming by the third. The noise thundered in his ears and started an ache in his head, but still Haxus watched on, twisting the dials on the binoculars to bring into focus the action of her sweeping the limb across her opponent, of blood spraying into the air, and flecks of bone and scales as she hammered her way through the Potorian’s head and into the ground.

Nothing to worry about _indeed._ Her performance far exceeded any scenario he had been willing to accept a moment ago, and she responded to her unfortunate circumstances in a way that was so deliciously _violent_ it almost took his breath away, for in acting the way she had, establishing herself as someone who was not going to submit without a fight, she had also established herself to Haxus as something of a _challenge_.

“ _Well_ now,” he said to himself as the Kreealt finally flung her weapon aside and, for the first time, looked up to take stock of her surroundings. He wished she would turn around, so that he might catch a glimpse of her face, but the alien barely inclined her head, preferring to stare straight ahead at the empty box Emperor Zarkon always reserved for himself. No telling what was going on inside her skull, but if he’d had to wager, he’d bet she was wondering who the hell was in charge.

The stadium filled with a cacophony of noise—cheers, insults, threats, clapping, stomping, booing and hissing, and, like clockwork, a fresh troupe of sentries filed into the arena to clean up the mess and corral the slaves back into their pen. The games would resume again, within six rotations of the planet Kreealt, and when Emperor Zarkon might be able to attend. In the meantime, the spectators would return to their respective duties, or return to their home planets and await an announcement of the next set of games.

Haxus threw the binoculars back at the startled Galra he had appropriated them from and ducked beneath the sweaty underarms of another, quickly making his way back to the entrance he had used before he was forced to actually _fight_ his way through the crowd. His hearts pounded and his head swam with _ideas_ , with thoughts and amendments to plans already set in place months back when the conquering of the mid-range, mountainous planet beneath their glorious command ship was in the earliest stages of conception.

_I’m not going to fail_ , he told himself sternly, as he left the confusion behind him, mercifully muffled by the door sliding back into place. _I’m not going to let myself fall by the wayside when more and more idiots are promoted to stations they have no right to hold._

“What’s the quickest way to the prisoner holding cells?” he asked of the same soldier he had passed guarding the entryway of the stadium hall. The guard jerked his head to his right, indicating a service tunnel with no labeling. It looked remarkably nondescript, which was just as well. Haxus grinned toothily and took off, a near spring in his step.

“You didn’t see me,” he said over his shoulder.

The guard shrugged. It wasn’t any of his business.


	3. Inspection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, to everyone who has read so far! I know it's a bit of a slow roll, but I appreciate those who have kept reading and all the newcomers picking this up for the first time! Thank you so much for the kudos, I really appreciate it!

 

“...and you’re serious with this?”

“I’m afraid so, Sir.”

Mirak scanned the data-pad with the critical eye of someone accustomed to dealing with forgeries, but, truthfully, he didn’t care whether or not this particular cadet carried the proper clearance. His job was to ensure those prisoners selected to participate in the games were properly motivated and siccing a medical intern on them when said motivation ran dry; he didn’t have the time or patience to coddle some boot-licking, wet-behind-the-ears green belt who’d strung enough neurons together to figure out what it took to get ahead in the Empire’s military, and he _certainly_ didn’t care if those plans involved working over a few of his more unruly pets for whatever information might prove useful for a few pats on the head and a possible promotion, however unlikely that may be.

He was too old for this—older than many who had ascended the ranks alongside him, and now were either dead or long since retired from active duty. his fur had begun to fade to white in blotchy patches, thinning along his forearms, shoulders, head, and back. He wore his ears shorn close to the skull, having come of age during a time when such a practice had been seen as advantageous. His fangs still glistened with preternatural whiteness, but there were far fewer of them than had existed in previous years, and his eyesight had finally begun to fail him, and the spectacles he wore detracted from his once-fearsome visage. He had seen one hundred and forty-three successful campaigns and received innumerable commendations for battlefield conduct and bravery. He had _personally_ trained over three thousand cadets, and to this day _still_ maintained the record for Most Consecutive Shots//Single Entry Point at the armory and gallery.

But he was _tired_ , and he knew Haxus’ type like the back of his gnarled old hands.

He had seen others like him, ambitious and hungry for a taste of power; their type came and went as the seasons changed, and Mirak had long ago grown disgruntled and disillusioned with the production of soldiers so loyal to what the Galra now represented they were willing to do _anything_ , stopping just shy of outright _treason_ , in order to win the favor of their Emperor. But even then, the lines were blurred. The upstanding young cadet before him did not _seem_ the type to step out of line, but everyone had their price, and most times the promise of glory and prestige was enough to incite even the most taciturn and pacifist of citizens to scandal.

However, it wasn’t, and had never been, his place to judge another’s character on the matter, and with a sordid grin, Mirak handed the tablet back to Haxus and turned his station over to the attendant-in-waiting.

“Follow me and keep close,” he said, his gnarled hand seeking purchase on his junior’s arm and holding fast with a strength that belied his old age.

Haxus, for his part, delighted in Mirak’s dogged indifference and disdain toward all things bureaucratic, for it saved him the worry of having his official looking documents recognized for the counterfeits they really were. Procuring _those_ hadn’t been an easy feat, but, well... _patience_ and _opportunity_. Plenty of times he had witnessed his instructors leave behind items of various importance in their haste to keep their appointments, only reappearing moments later to retrieve them, out of breath and suspicious of everyone in their immediate vicinity; it had only taken ensuring himself at the right place at the right time, and, of course, no small amount of luck to avoid being caught in the act of copying command-level private documents no cadet even had _access_ to. Death would be a mercy sentence compared to the alternatives.

He only trusted Mirak because the sub-commander had long ago made known his disinterest in supporting an Empire that outwardly promoted galactic cooperation and assimilation, while simultaneously steamrolling anyone who chose to rebel, as well as _everyone_ else in their path. His dissent hadn’t gone unnoticed by Zarkon, garnering his direct attention, as many had anticipated, and it was, perhaps, due in part to the quiet, personal manner in which Mirak voiced his dissatisfaction that he hadn’t been arrested and turned over to the druids for further questioning. Instead, Zarkon effectively silenced Mirak without ever once summoning him for an audience, by rescinding a promotion that, some said, had been a long time coming, and was well deserved.

Haxus remembered the gossip from when he had been put through his Initiations, and, like many of his peers, he had thought it a fitting, if lenient punishment. Zarkon decommissioned Mirak’s ship, stripped him of his command, sentenced his entire crew to a firing squad, and removed every luxury he had grown accustomed to before transferring him to Central Command, to a position that essentially amounted to desk jockey. His only authority extended to the slaves and the temporary grunts assigned to additional duty as part of their penance for collected demerits. This too revealed a more cunning calculation on Zarkon’s part—for as long as he denied Mirak even a single foothold, by isolating him so completely that even his staff remained on constant rotation, he removed any opportunity the pariah might have to garner sympathy and support, and thus eliminated any possibility of rebellion.

Overkill? Perhaps, but Haxus saw Mirak’s unfortunate, though completely self-incurred position for what it really was: a warning, as to what happens to those who dared speak out against Zarkon. In a way, death was preferable to being demoted and tucked away like some obsolete relic and forgotten about. He thought Mirak pathetic, little more than a de-fanged, de-clawed Neuter, whose only frightening aspect was the reek of pipe on his breath and the ungainly limp he had adopted from too much time sitting on his rear. Unable to summon pity, Haxus allowed himself a brief moment to adopt a strange sense of fondness for the old Galra warrior, for without him, they would have no one whose example to avoid.

“Which one are you after,” the old soldier asked as he led the younger man toward the individual cells where slaves were held before and after matches.

“One of the newcomers,” Haxus responded in his usual, crisp manner. “Kreealt. Female, newest contender on the floor—four arms, if that helps jog your memory.”

“No need,” Mirak snorted. “You had me at ‘Kreealt’. We just brought her in the back to hose her down. She’s _filthy_ , covered in all that blood. I take it you were watching?”

“Of course. I was...curious. We know next to nothing of their species, and given the bizarre structure of their communal dwellings, I had certain expectations regarding their strength.”

“It’s more than I know,” Mirak shrugged, pressing his hand against the security panel. It accepted his bio-metric signature with a chirrup and recalled the heavy locks holding the door in its track. The slab retracted into the ceiling and the two passed into a long hallway lined with cells, each one little more than an eight-by-eight room with a bench. Each cell usually housed two or three bodies, depending on size, and the barred gates kept the prisoners docile with the threat of painful electric shocks delivered at two-tick intervals; most didn’t bother hanging on for any longer than it took to deliver two or three shocks.

“We would be remiss if we didn’t seize this opportunity to study them up close,” Haxus continued, choosing to keep his true intentions a secret, though whether or not Mirak suspected him was of little consequence. “How many unknown species have we encountered before? _Truly_ unknown?”

“Not enough to warrant this sudden _fuss_ you’re putting up,” Mirak grumbled. “But since you’re here, I expect you to follow my one rule.”

“ _Only_ one?”

“Don’t kill her. She won her first match, and easily, at that. She’s got plenty of potential and I don’t need you jeopardizing her chances. My work might not mean much to anyone else these days, but it still means something to _me_.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. My loyalty lies first with the Empire.”

Mirak’s glare was _withering._ “That doesn’t reassure me at _all_.”

“A pity,” Haxus dared, “seeing it’s all you’ll get. I make no promises for the Empire, and only seek to further its cause, in the name of Galra. Progress shouldn’t _frighten_ you, Mirak. Whether it’s one dead slave or a promotion—you shouldn’t let _fear_ hold you back.”

_**WHAM!** _

Haxus snarled, finding himself suddenly shoved against the nearest wall, Mirak’s hand fisted around his collar and the nape of his neck, and his face entirely too close for one’s comfort. It appeared he had gone a little too _far_.

“You’ve got a lot of _nerve_ ,” he growled. “You think you’re special, just because you’ve sensed an opening where no one else has yet? You think you’ll be the first? You have a type, _child_ , and you’re all cut from the same cloth.”

Haxus seized Mirak’s wrist and squeezed, fury rising in his chest as he willed every muscle in his body under his absolute control; no sense in starting a fight down here, not when attention could be drawn so swiftly and destroy his chances at getting to the Kreealt. “No,” he spat, “I’m _nothing_ like _anyone_. Don’t make the mistake of underestimating me.”

“Just one more cadet with dreams of promotion, just one more _idiot_ willing to do _anything_ to get it,” Mirak hissed back, pressing Haxus against the wall and giving him a brief shake. “It’s not an assumption, it’s _fact_ , and you can’t tell me you’re here for any other reason than to help your _self_. _Vrepit sa_ , you little _shit stickler_.”

Haxus bared his teeth, throwing Mirak’s hand off and sidestepping him. Though technically a superior officer, he wasn’t about to allow Mirak to manhandle him like a disobedient kit, even if his presumptions were disarmingly on point. There was _nothing_ he wasn’t prepared to do, no depths to which he’d refuse to sink if he could procure a permanent position within High Command. If that meant manipulating everyone around him in order to satisfy his own ambitions, then so be it. He had gotten this far by himself—he would continue to carve his own path, for as long as it took.

“Your paranoia is showing,” he sneered, pinning Mirak with an icy glare. “I have no desire to cause trouble, only to be permitted the time to study the Kreealt, and attempt to communicate with her.”

“Yeah, for ‘research’, right?” Mirak laughed—it wasn’t a nice laugh, more like the ugly kind of bark one chokes out when they realize that something’s not going in their favor and try to save face.

“Yes,” Haxus hissed, tugging the ends of his sleeves into order. “ _Research_. Is that going to pose a problem?”

“Keep her alive, is all I’m asking,” Mirak snapped. “And call ahead to make sure there’s someone here to let you through. Don’t expect much more from me.”

He expected _nothing_ , but kept that to himself, and offered the sub-commander a slight smile—more of a knowing smirk, really—and clasped his hands behind his back.

“Excellent,” he said. “Glad we’ve worked that out. Shall we proceed?”

Mirak didn’t try to instigate further, opting instead to lead Haxus to the farthest end of the hall, where the floor plan opened into a large room used for any number of various activities, but namely hosing down whoever needed a bath. Haxus stepped in a puddle immediately and looked down in distaste at the murky water spreading across the floor. His Kreealt stood at the other side, facing the wall with her hands evenly placed and her legs spread. Another cadet wielded the hose, focusing the highly pressurized spray right between the prisoner’s shoulders and not doing much else. Haxus watched impassively, pausing only to make a mental note to shine his boots before the start of his shift.

“She clean?” Mirak shouted at the cadet, who looked as though he’d rather be _anywhere_ else.

“Yessir,” he responded in a lazy drawl, aiming the hose at the back of the Kreealt’s head. Her dreads parted, and it was only then that Haxus realized it wasn’t _hair_ , but rather thin, fleshy tendrils sprouting from her scalp. Intrigued, he took a step forward, at the risk of getting wet as the water splashed back. The Kreealt made an attempt to turn her head, but the moment she did, the stream of water blasted her face and she was forced back, sputtering and coughing. She stumbled, caught herself against the wall with two arms before slipping in the puddle formed around her feet, and the cadet followed her trajectory, altering his aim with a smug smile.

“That’s _enough_ ,” Haxus said after a few more moments of watching the creature try to block the water with all four of her arms. “Let her breathe.”

The cadet looked to Mirak for confirmation before shutting off the valve, and the only sound left to the room was that of the Kreealt coughing and spitting as she crawled to her knees. Haxus approached, the water slapping beneath each step until he stood before the prisoner, looking down at her back, the ragged bodysuit she had been fitted with bunching wetly at her waist and beneath her arms. He nudged her knee with a foot, to gain her attention.

“Can you understand me?” he tried, speaking loudly and enunciating his words. She continued to sputter, falling back onto her rump and remaining seated. The tendrils on her head finally gave way to reveal her face: a high-boned, sculpted affair with a sloping nose and large, faintly luminous eyes. She looked up at him, pupils dilating and contracting as the light hit them, and squinted, as though not quite sure what to make of him. Haxus gnawed on the inside of his cheek as his hearts began to beat faster.

“Can. You. Under. Stand. Me?” he asked again while Mirak leaned against the wall with a smirk.

“Looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you,” he teased when the Kreealt merely cocked her head at Haxus’ increasingly frustrated repetition of the question.

“Nonsense,” Haxus said over his shoulder. “She understands. She’s just being _difficult_.”

He nudged her again with the toe of his boot, more of a kick this time. His alien prisoner narrowed her eyes and bared her sharp teeth, making a hissing noise in the back of her throat.

“I’d back off if I were you,” Mirak said, eyebrows raised. “That’s not a happy sound.”

“Shut _up._ ”

“Suit yourself.”

Haxus glared back, skin itching as his fur fought to rise against the compression of his uniform. She was _bold_ , for a slave, like she didn’t already know her place. Even supposing she _had_ just won a match against an arena favorite and was still riding high on the adrenaline rush, even _then_ she should have recognized him as her superior and shown the proper deference—fear, cowering, _any_ submissive stance, really. But no, she looked him in the eyes and dared to show him her fangs, like she was willing to use them. Haxus curled his hand into a fist.

“I’m only going to ask you once more,” he said, his voice a deadly calm. “Do you understand my language? Do you know what I am saying?”

A few beats of silence passed.

She didn’t look away.

“Eh, give it up, Cadet,” Mirak called. “Her people must have never made contact with anyone from the outside, otherwise she’d know Basic. She’ll need the nanites.”

“I hadn’t planned on waiting. See to it that she’s given the treatment before my return.”

“How long?”

“A couple days. I’ve other duties to attend.”

All Mirak could do was shrug. “I’ll put in a request.”

Irritated that he had all but wasted his time, Haxus lashed out at the Kreealt again, kicking her thigh. Distantly, he heard a shout, and a few seconds later realized she had wrapped her hand around his ankle. He looked to her face with something like shock written on his, and he saw her smile before yanking him off of his feet.

 


	4. Imprisoned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter makes me nervous because I don't think I've introduced an OC to an online community since I was like 16, and I don't have any references or drawings of her yet but I'm hoping that will change here soon, as soon as I can pull together money for a good commission. But anyways, here's this. Next chapter might take a little more like two weeks. Work, school, trying to find a new place to live have me so stressed out I can barely focus on writing anymore.

 

The stranger went down like a basket of wet silt, and made about the same noise as his head struck the puddled ground. She would have liked to break his neck, gouge out his eyes, at _least_ , but in the same breath one fell, the others were upon her like gnats, swarming and shouting in their alien tongue, beating her with a rod that crackled against her skin and sent jolts through her bones that made her feel as though she might shake apart.

She thought she must have lost consciousness, for she didn’t remember anything after the rod, and woke in her cell with her ears ringing and her chest burning with a deep, aching pain. Absently, she rubbed at the hard, bony structure of her sternum and began the agonizing process of sitting up without vomiting her last meal—whatever it had been, there hadn’t been much of it.

Xem’anthia grit her teeth as she pulled herself from the cool, hard floor, braced by both secondary arms and one primary as she felt about herself for fresh wounds. Thus far, her captors exhibited great skill—or restraint—in leaving her skin unbroken. Small favors, she supposed, but knew also, deep down, that she was lucky to count herself still among the living.

These were not the traveling merchants who sometimes condescended to visit her city, once every seven Snowfalls or so, arriving in their aircraft forged of gleaming metals and capable, they said in broken Kreealt, of flying among the stars.

No, the ones that had ransacked her city were a warrior race, conquerors and destroyers and well-versed in the art. Xem’anthia chose to look back, forced herself to _remember_ , and the potency of her desire brought hot tears of shame to the corners of her eyes.

They had come with weapons for which her people had no name, shouting in a language they could not understand, and had taken prisoner as many as they could lay hands on. The intruders slaughtered and burned the flocks of stone-goats, destroyed the gardens so lovingly tended by the children, and toppled the facade of their city entrance. She had watched her people struggle to resist and fail to drive the enemy back, eviscerating themselves on glowing swords that hummed and seared the flesh when they cut, weapons derived of _magic_ of some manner, and lightning pulled down from the sky itself.

Some weapons had killed from a distance, with flashes of light that traveled great distances and left small, circular holes in their victims. _Guns_ , she had thought to herself, recalling the odd, oblong-shaped weapon one of the space-faring travelers had shown her when she had been small, and very much taken with the secrets of worlds beyond her reach.

Her people did not carry guns or anything like them, but favored the crossbow, the sword, knives and staffs, spears and shields and the occasional whip—they had stood no chance. Xem’anthia had fought as well, hurling her heavy bolas with deadly accuracy, firing her crossbow with one set of arms and reloading another with her secondary. ‘A sword is

‘A sword is the Anthia’s last offense,’ her mentor had told her, long before she had claimed the title. ‘If you must draw your blade, then you have already failed’.

She had been forced to her last resort by the sheer overwhelming number of invaders. They swarmed the root of the mountain, their bodies glinting with the strangest, most seamless armor she had ever seen, and where one fell there were three more ready to take its place.

In the end, their forces had overpowered the entirety of the city.

In the end, Xem’anthia had failed.

_Forgive me, my Queen,_ she thought, folding her smaller arms in a protective embrace over her stomach. The pain in her chest expanded, encompassing her entire body until she felt like crying out, but giving her captors the satisfaction of knowing her to be miserable and homesick brought greater shame, and she warbled quietly to herself in soft little chitters any stranger might mistake for singing.

Sire and Mater were more than likely dead. She had already some to terms with that, for they had long since passed into their golden age and would be of little use if their suppressors sought able-bodied workers for labor, or to fight in their paltry competitions. Rather than grief, Xem’anthia felt only gratitude that they were spared the shame of finding their youngest whelp had failed to protect the Queen. Had they known, they would have taken their own lives as penance, in order to spare her siblings from the burden of ignominy.

Distantly, she wondered if any of her brothers and sisters had survived; she had not seen them for more than fifteen Snowfalls, not since her mentor, the old Duell, had taken her to be trained as Anthia, the Queen’s personal guard.

Many seasons had passed between the birthing of her siblings and her own, and though Sire and Mater had always made her feel loved, their efforts could not quite erase the sensation that something was missing from her life. She had, once, thought to fill that void with her siblings’ approval and validation, but they had their own lives and mates and children to consider, which left no room for those conceived long after the age of propriety.

Now, she could only hope they had found a measure of safety, or, at the very least, met with a swift end. Her family had not been warriors, but tended to flock and garden, and were well-respected for their chosen lot. Three of her eldest siblings (of which, in total, there were fifteen), whose faces she could no longer recall, had once tried their hand at hunting until the death of their brother Mich, at the jaws of a predatory beast, had poisoned their enthusiasm.

‘Safer to till the ground,’ her Sire had said when she asked why they stayed behind during hunting parties. ‘Safer, and still we provide’.

_But not here_ , she thought, drawing her knees up and folding her primaries around the bony ridges of her kneecaps. There was nothing left for her to obtain, nothing left to prove and no one to prove it to—none who mattered, at any rate. Xem’anthia had seen no signs that any of her clansmen had survived the massacre. Her captors kept her separated from the other slaves, only allowing her to mingle during the fighting.

_Another_ thing, those contests. She did not _relish_ in death, as the screaming crowd had, but neither could she deny it had felt _good_ , ripping those _things_ apart and utilizing the full strength of an adult Kreealt warrior, even on lurid display. Killing her opponent had been...unfortunate; she was certain it hadn’t wanted to be there anymore than she, and yet it had attacked, and so she had been forced to defend herself.

She could _still_ feel the phantom reverberations snaking up her arms, into her shoulders, and settling deep in her bones, a song humming within the cage of her being, and the wet _**thunk**_ of hitting the blood-soaked dirt beneath the skull as it finally caved in, warm flecks of frothy spray across her face and arms and--

Xem’anthia grasped her long ears and twisted with such force she yelped, but the pain distracted the savage pulse of her heart and the rush of heat flooding her veins.

A moment later, she shivered, skin still damp. Her captors had yet to provide her with dry clothing, but her nudity did not bother her, even when considering _they_ must have divested her of her wet rags. These aliens appeared mercifully uninterested altogether, but Xem’anthia wasn’t sure how much of that was credit to genuine disinterest or the difference in anatomies.

The few she had come into contact with since her capture shared a comparable height with most of her clansmen, and filled out a vaguely male shape. Their skin, unlike anything she had seen before, was actually gently furred and dusky, like the skies at night. Their hands tipped in wickedly sharp claws, attached to long, powerful arms, and similarly pointed teeth glinted in their mouths when they spoke.

It was their eyes that unnerved her the most, however, golden and glowing but lacking a pupil. She could not read eyes like those, nor did she particularly _want_ to.

She hoped the _other_ one wouldn’t return. _He_ was something else altogether, exuding a near tangible difference, like a thickness in the air, hanging about him like a malevolent shadow. _His_ eyes had been the most unkind, unblinking as he had looked down his nose at her like she was so much _nothing_. The timbre of his voice had slid against her like mud, wet and smooth and _cold_.

Even if she hadn’t understood his words, she knew his type, secretive and quiet, digging their claws deep and finding footholds where they could and pulling themselves up, never mind anyone else. Whatever he had wanted from her, she hoped she had managed to discourage his intentions.

No one was going to _use_ her. Whatever he wanted, she would not give, not willingly. Whatever methods he’d implement, however he’d try to break her, she would _resist_ , with every fiber of her being and until every last bit of strength was wrung from her body.

Let these aliens beat her with their rods, let them drench her in freezing water, strip her of everything and force her to fight—to _kill—_ for their amusement.

Let them make her _stronger_.

She would fly the banner of her hatred and defiance high, and she would turn herself into the sort of monster that would both please and frighten her captors.

_I am_ _ **still**_ _Anthia_ , she thought, _and I will teach these murderers what that_ _ **means**_.

Footsteps echoed down the long corridor to the left of her cell, multiple people judging by the variance in gaits she was able to pick up by twisting her ears about. Xem’anthia uncurled her limbs and stood, refusing to meet the enemy whilst sulking on the floor like a child. Glaring, she snarled a warning as no less than four of the strange species gathered around her cell.

Two she recognized from before, the elder who favored the rod and the youth who had sprayed her with the hose. The third was larger and taller than the others, sporting a scruffy coat and a malicious grin; he wore powerful armor across his chest, emblazoned in red, gold, and black. The final member of the group wore long robes to the floor and hood; she could not see this one’s face.

As she growled, they spoke among themselves, no doubt coming to some sort of an agreement on how best to handle her. The old one gestured, frowning, and the youth approached to press his hand against something on the wall just out of her line of sight. The bars of her cell retracted into the ceiling and the largest of her captors said something in a gruff, commanding tone. There was a pause, a subtle shift in the atmosphere, and Xem’anthia launched herself at the robed figure, claws and teeth bared—it raised its hand and crooked branches of light erupted from the center of its palm.

For the second time that day, Xem’anthia fell to the ground, unconscious.


End file.
